Without Remorse
by 90TheGeneral09
Summary: Modern Warfare 2. A Shadow Company operators' perspective on the mission to extract Ghost and Roach from Makarov's safe-house in the mountains of northern Georgia- and the special orders given by Shepherd for the elimination of the Task Force 141 members.
1. Chapter 1- Second To None

**Chapter I- Second To None**

* * *

Site Hotel Bravo, the primary base of Shadow Company in the mountains of Afghanistan, was easily the most avoided place for miles around. Taliban fighters preferred to act like the base wasn't there; for some reason, the men in the black uniforms tended to ignore them- and fought with a ferocity Hell's demons could not have even hoped to equal when they were bothered. Other American soldiers, lesser men with a lower security clearance, didn't know the system of caves was even there. And those few locals foolish enough to intrude on the territory of the men in black armour had a tendency to never be heard from again.

Shadow Company were, hands down, the finest band of warriors ever assembled in American military history. Picked from the best of the best, they were the definition of the term "elite of the elite". Delta Force, the Green Berets, the Rangers, the 82nd and 101st Airborne; even men from artillery and armour units were welcomed from time to time. Officially, Shadow Company functioned as the only active unit within the otherwise-disbanded 12th Special Forces group.

They were similar to the much more famous Navy SEALs and Green Berets in that their job was to fight war the hard way, any time of day or night, anywhere at all on the planet, and at whatever cost it took. The difference was that Shadow Company weren't just good, or even great- they were better than elite, second to no one. On special assignment under the command of famed American officer Lieutenant General Herschel von Shepherd III, Shadow Company answered to the General and him alone.

The same could be said of the international unit of special forces operators, Task Force 141; in fact, the two units worked together often and enjoyed a healthy and often fierce rivalry. The Americans, Australians, British and others of 141 bragged that they could out-fight, out-shoot, out-gun and out-drink Shadow Company any day of the week; the men of Shadow said just the same of 141. Busy hunting enemies of the free world in the mountains of Afghanistan and anywhere else duty called them, the two elite units rarely had enough leisure time to put their boasts to the test- but what off-duty contests they did engage in would have put many of the Corp's Devil Dogs to shame.

If one had to state a difference between Task Force 141 and Shadow Company, it was that Shadow Company really did avoid the limelight at all times, for a variety of reasons. Both units were highly classified, and while their membership restrictions were similar- one already in had to notice you in action, on base, or otherwise in a situation where you showed you had what it took without even knowing who was watching, then recommend you to Shepherd- Shadow Company's existence was about all anyone was allowed to know. Their members, when recognized, were constantly being bought drinks in American airports- they were the SEAL Team Six of the Army, the men who would bring down that mad-dog son of a bitch Vladimir Makarov just the same way that the Navy had bagged Bin Laden. But Shadow Company did not like publicity; they operated in great secrecy for a reason. For one thing, they were a force gifted with the unique ability to play their enemies' games better than the foe himself did.

Their forerunners in Vietnam had been tougher than the VC; in the modern age, Shadow Company had earned the respect and fear of every enemy they faced. Iraq's Republican Guard had lived in fear of those men with the Wreathed Spade patch, with encircled with the words "VIGILANS ET FIDELIS" and "DEATH WAITS IN THE SHADOWS". The Taliban's leadership had been baffled by early reports of the Black Devils, American infidels who lived in caves and fought like all of Hell's demons empowered every one of them. Now the Taliban's top leaders, in quiet, secure conversations, spoke of Shadow Company as the only enemy the Taliban had ever learned to fear.

They were not like the other Americans; these men fought like superhumans, like fighters of an American Taliban with a holy war of their own. You could see it in their every movement, every time one of them spoke and the others leapt to follow; these men believed completely in the righteousness of what they were doing. Most Americans, one Taliban cell leader had remarked in 2015, fought with their hearts. They could be bullied into retreating, forced into surrender. These other men weren't like that. The Black Devils fought with every fiber of their being; the Black Devils fought with their souls.

But the first and foremost reason that Shadow Company was a completely close-mouthed organization, one to whom security and secrecy meant everything, was that they were in many ways a perfect mirror of the Taliban. John Kreese, one of the earliest advocates of such a unit as Shadow Company being created, had modeled one unit of the 12th Special Forces Group almost exactly off the methods and spirit of the Vietcong. No rules, no boundaries, no mercy, Kreese had urged to his men- and his superiors, as he fought to have the outfit officially recognized and created. No rules, no boundaries, no mercy. Victory at all costs.

And this meant that the men of Shadow Company operated in a world where the Geneva Convention had been nullified. The so-called rules and laws of war didn't exist. The only law that Shadow Company respected was Shepherd, their own chain of command, and their unwavering, powerful belief in the superiority of the United States of America over not only any other nation in the present world, but every other nation ever to exist in human history. Shadow Company were some of America's finest warriors, and they were steadily teaching Vladimir Makarov's band of terrorists lessons of respect through superior fighting skill and firepower. But they did not play by the rules, something few American civilians could have tolerated or understood. The day for their actions to be made known would not come in any of the current members' lifetimes- and given what they had sometimes done, that day might never come at all.

It was hard to say sometimes just why the men of Shadow Company followed Lieutenant General Shepherd with such conviction. Or rather, it was hard for an outsider, a civilian with little knowledge of modern war and the men needed to win it, to understand. The elite warriors of Shadow understood just fine.

The matter was really rather simple. Lieutenant General Herschel von Shepherd III, West Point Class of 1981, was one of the best and most daring flag officers of any nation in the modern age. TIME Magazine's Person of the Year for 2015, Shepherd had been called a leader of men, a hero, and most appropriately "a modern-day Ulysses S. Grant". Like Grant, Shepherd had detractors- and grudging admirers- who pointed out that much of his success as a combat officer had to do with what was apparently his favourite approach to any given problem: to take the biggest hammer he could find, and smash whatever was in the way. A man not at all afraid of public criticism, Shepherd took the comparisons with Grant as a compliment; it meant people recognized that he was willing to do what was necessary to win, just as Grant had been.

But Shepherd was only just starting to come to real public notice; though he played an active role in the military actions of the United States in Wadiya and in Russia during the Second Russian Civil War, his warnings that the Loyalists hadn't really won went unheard. Shepherd's attempts to alert the United States, his warnings to Congress that the Ultranationalists were still a growing threat, went ignored. After losing 30,000 soldiers, sailors, airmen and Marines when Al-Assad had detonated a nuclear weapon and destroyed the Wadiyan capital, the American people had been tired. They'd had enough of worrying about the Russians for one decade, and the Joint Chiefs had to fight like hell just to keep forces placed in the still-ongoing war in Afghanistan.

Shepherd had been unwilling to give up, or to shy away from the real threats facing the American people. He was a man of a rare combination of skill; he possessed both uncommon military and political ability, able to navigate both worlds with relative ease. Shepherd took a great interest in seeking out men of like intelligence and ability, men who had joined the US Armed Forces for the most righteous of reasons, and bringing them together. Pigeonholed and almost forgotten, Shadow Company had suddenly seen their budget and strength explode overnight. Their leadership got everything they'd been asking for; a dedicated air support group, field artillery units attached, and enough resources and new personnel to make them some of the finest and most capable warriors on the planet.

It was unsurprising, then, that Zack Camden had taken the offer of joining when it was made to him. At 22 years old, he was leader of Shadow Company's Disciple Two, a team that had 11 men including himself. He'd gotten the offer while a member of the 5th Special Forces group; it had been almost two years ago now, during his second tour in Afghanistan. The UH-60 Zack had been riding in had been shot down over the mountains, hit by a stolen HAWK missile system and forced to crash-land.

Zack had not only fought off the Taliban search party that arrived to search the wreckage, but killed enough of them as he counterattacked uphill with a SAW and hand grenades that those fighters who survived fled the area. Zack, wounded several times during the crash and subsequent firefight, had guarded the crash site for several hours, administering aid to both the helicopter's crew and his team-mates, even providing them with weapons and giving them some ability to fight. When other members of Captain Susan Gray's D Company had arrived to rescue their comrades and seen the work Zack had done, he was immediately written up for and soon after presented with his fifth Bronze Star for Valour and his third Purple Heart.

It had been while he was in the field hospital at Fire Base Phoenix that Zack truly gained the attention of Shadow Company. He had stayed there for one week, grudgingly conceding that he did, in fact, need to take time off to recuperate from his injuries. Halfway through the second week, though, Zack began to grow restless, and finally asked the Major in charge point-blank what he'd have to do to prove he was well enough to leave. Somewhat sarcastically- and forgetting he was talking to a Green Beret- the Major replied he'd have to see Zack do 200 pushups without stopping. Zack had dropped to the floor of the field hospital and begun counting them out; he was at 225 when the doctor said he'd seen enough. Zack was set to be released the next day.

As he was getting ready to leave, though, Zack was ordered by a lieutenant whom he'd never seen before- and whose spade emblem at the center of the circular insignia on his arm was unfamiliar at the time- to report to one of the debriefing rooms on base. There was a high-ranking officer, the LT said, who wanted to ask Zack about the after-action report he'd helped fill out following his action in the mountains outside Kabul two weeks ago.

Getting back into his ACU's, Zack had made his way across the base and located the room he was to be questioned in. An MP unlocked the door and let him in, but Zack wasn't placed under guard. That was nice; these debriefing rooms looked a little too much like they doubled as interrogation rooms- something that, to be fair, was entirely possible. _Semper Gumby_, Zack thought as he sat down in one of the two wooden chairs facing each other on opposite sides of the plain table at the center of the room. _Always Flexible_.

Zack was there for perhaps thirty minutes without hearing or seeing anybody; he waited patiently, though, and did not leave the room to ask anyone where this officer was, or to complain. Zack knew better; if he was told someone of senior rank wanted to speak with him about a recent action he'd been a part of, the young Green Beret had no problem answering their questions. You had to respect officers on these things; how you handled yourself at a time like this could well have an impact on your career, whether you knew it or not.

Then a pair of boots strode swiftly up to the door, with a note of confidence Zack often recognized in his own walk. Officer or enlisted man, the owner of those boots knew exactly what he was doing.

The boot-steps halted, and the door-handle turned; Zack caught a glimpse of the ACU's, then the face of the man wearing them- and the patch on his chest bearing three black stars. Instantly Zack was on his feet, snapping stiffly to attention.

"Room, atten-shun!"

Lieutenant General Shepherd entered the room without speaking, closing the door behind him. He looked at Zack for just a moment, then nodded. "As you were," he said simply, his voice somehow always carrying a note of grave seriousness. Shepherd never joked- not about anything.

Zack sat back down in the seat, and Shepherd stood across the table from him but didn't sit himself. He seemed to like the height difference it provided; he, the General, continued to loom over others, a larger-than-life man, even when in the same room with them. He seemed to be thinking for a few moments, regarding Zack in silence. It made him feel a little uncomfortable; he was fighting the urge to ask what the General wanted, and why he was here. But discipline held Zack's tongue; odds were he'd know soon enough.

In fact, it didn't take very long at all. "Do you know why you're here, son?" General Shepherd asked.

"Yes, sir," Zack answered confidently. "You wanted to hear about the details of my action in the hills near Kabul."

"The one you got your fifth Bronze Star for. Were every one of them Valour awards?"

"Yes, sir," Zack answered, though he had a feeling Shepherd already knew this.

Shepherd frowned a little, as if concentrating on something. "I've been told you don't take anything above a Bronze Star. Why is that?"

"I don't need medals, sir," Zack said simply, but as ever choosing his words carefully. "Out here, fighting battles with the 5th, medals don't make much difference. If they wanna give me a medal, fine. But I don't need anything fancy, sir."

"Good," Shepherd said suddenly. "I don't like glory chasers. Real heroes don't brag, son."

"Hooah, sir."

General Shepherd smiled a little- but only for a moment. He had little time to waste on levity. After a moment more of standing there with his arms crossed, regarding Zack with scrutiny, Shepherd said, "Soldier, I already know the details of the incident near Kabul. There's no need to tell me about that."

"Yes, sir," Zack said, his face going neutral and blank as he hid his confusion.

After looking at him a moment more- Zack was getting a feeling Shepherd was scrutinizing him, gauging his reaction to certain questions, even to periods of silence- the General went on. "I'm in command of a number of special forces units, Sergeant Camden. They're special units- willing to do whatever it takes to win this war, and any more that should come our way. They're the best, most hand-picked warriors on the planet. I think they could use somebody like you."

"Yes, sir," Zack said again. He was yes-sir-ing the General a lot, but what else was he supposed to say? This was a one-and-a-half way conversation. You talked to the General, but only after he talked to you. You kept your questions and statements brief and to the point, stood unless asked to be seated, the works. This was the flag officer's conversation; Zack Camden was just visiting in it.

"Sergeant, the 12th Special Forces Group is officially disbanded, correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"It isn't. There's one company still active. They're Shadow Company; best and most experienced warriors in the United States Army. They're a special unit, with special privileges. Namely, the chance to do whatever it takes to win." Shepherd looked at Camden as he spoke, his eyes hard and relentless. "No bureaucrats get in Shadow Company's way, and I only send them in when it'll count the most. They've got only one rule: Victory at all costs."

The room was silent; you could have heard a pin drop. Zack was fascinated, intrigued; he had never heard of so fascinating a unit in his life.

Shepherd looked at Zack intently. "I don't have time for bullshit, and I only pick men for Shadow who don't fuck around. Men who get the job done, whatever it takes. Now, tell me, son- how would you like a chance… to _really_ serve your country?"


	2. Chapter 2- Zero Dark Forty

**Chapter II- Zero Dark Forty**

* * *

Zack Camden's third tour in Afghanistan was getting close to its end. He had been with Shadow Company for over a year now; he'd finished his second tour with Shadow after transferring out of D Company of the 5th Special Forces Group, transferred to the officially-nonexistent 12th. In September of 2016 he'd be out of the Army- or at least, that had been the plan.

The Russian Democratic Union had invaded the United States' East Coast just a few days ago, starting World War III. They were hitting the East Cost hard, coming in with everything they had. The men of Shadow Company were restless; they felt like caged animals all of a sudden, hiding in their caves in Afghanistan while men, women, and even children were dying at home.

Discipline held, but the men of Shadow Company made their displeasure clear; in their own way, speaking respectfully to their commanders, the operators of Shadow said one thing: We want in. We want to take action.

That's what today was about. Zack had been woken up by Henry Raam, leader of Disciple Six and one of his best friends in Shadow Company, at 10 minutes after midnight. He was in full battle rattle, all his gear loaded up and ready to go. Raaam's eyes were alive with excitement, and he said quietly, "CO says Shepherd's gonna brief us at 00:40. We're goin' active, we're gonna _get some_!"

Disciple Two's team leader, Zack Camden, opened his gray eyes, running a hand over a mess of short-cut, brown-blonde hair. Zack, zipped up in a sleeping bag on a cot, privately wished Shepherd could have waited for a more decent hour. But if a general who was well past forty could do it, Zack could do it. He rolled to his feet and got up, waking Kevin Harkin, his team secondary, first. Together they got the rest of the team moving.

Half an hour later, the men of Disciple's array of combat teams were gathered in the Living Room, what they jokingly called the particular space in this series of- at times- surprisingly spacious caves that functioned as one of the mission briefing rooms. Really, the room was just like any of the others- spare gear and equipment was stacked here and there, and sometimes maps or even a whiteboard were brought in as necessary. But the briefings first and foremost took place with an officer or NCO coming into the room; it was from that individual that they would learn what there was to do. And who there was to kill. That last part was something the men of Shadow Company were yearning, hungering for today- their country was under attack at home. They wanted blood.

General Shepherd walked in at exactly 00:40 hours, and began his talk without any sort of greetings or preamble. The men of Team Disciple, likewise, stayed crouched or seated on the cave floor; there were no salutes or shouts to call the room to attention. These were the finest operators the US Army Special Forces could offer, and they were at Site Hotel Bravo, the most secretive and secure base held by the United States anywhere in Afghanistan. Perhaps even anywhere in the world. They were beyond such formalities now. Shepherd knew these men respected him, and vice versa. That was all that mattered.

"Gentlemen," Shepherd began, "We have a mission. As we speak the US Pacific Fleet is leading the counterattack on that side of the ocean; the Atlantic Fleet is raising hell all over their namesake. The Russians are invading Europe, too- and you can bet the Brits, the French, and the Germans are above all others hitting back with everything they have."

Shepherd paused, his eyes surveying the room. The men already knew most of this; Team Disciple found it irritating that the Navy was kicking so much ass- and getting its ass kicked so much- while they, the finest warriors in the Army, sat on their own asses and did nothing. It looked like that was about to change, though. You could have heard a cricket chirp as Shepherd surveyed the room, his voice strong and gravely serious, his eyes alive and aware; he had a plan. A damn good one from the looks of it.

"Hell," Shepherd said with a shrug, "Even the Irish are getting into the fight. People all over the world are figuring out what matters to them _real quick_, gentlemen. The free world is under attack- and no one who calls himself a free man wants to stand by and watch. But all this resistance won't make a damn bit of difference if _we_ don't get the ones responsible. This whole mess was started by _one man_, and if he isn't brought to book, everything that's happening now has the potential to start all over again."

Disciple's members eyed the General with what could only be called intense curiosity; he was going somewhere with this. Shadow Company was a force only used where they were needed, where the will of a single man could make a difference- and the will of Shadow Company together could shape the course of history. Shepherd was talking about Vladimir Makarov here, leader of the Ultranationalists in Russia.

Like the Taliban, the hard-line Russian soldiers and politicians had staked their fate on a single man, making their ultimate success or failure largely dependent on his own. Killing or capturing Makarov would not destroy the Ultranationalists, just as killing Osama bin Laden hadn't stopped the Taliban. But those Muslim extremists were getting a little weaker every year; they were no longer the worldwide threat they had once been. Once Makarov was out of the picture, the same would happen to the Ultranationalists in Russia. With their number one man gone, they'd lose strength, sometimes slowly and sometimes quickly… and with enough time, they'd just fade away.

If they hadn't all been killed by Shadow Company first.

Shepherd then said just what the soldiers assembled in the room were thinking. "One man is responsible for all this. Makarov must be brought to light."

What he said next, though, neither Zack nor any of the other Shadow Company operators in the room could have anticipated.

"What you men are about to hear is information just hours old. It's just been learned that there are men in Task Force 141 who have been compromising our operations worldwide for weeks; possibly for years."

There was an almost inaudible stir in the room, a low rustle as the several-dozen men of Team Disciple looked each other in shock, amazement- and anger. This was unbelievable; it was almost too much to accept, even from Shepherd. But the General seemed to sense the operators in front of him were having difficulty accepting this at face value, even from him- many of Shadow Company's operators had friends in 141 and had worked with the unit before on missions.

Shepherd shook his head slowly, as if he couldn't believe this himself. "Three serious acts of treason have been detected- those three, at least."

"First is the mission Captain MacTavish and Sergeant Sanderson were sent on in Kazakhstan, recovering the ACS module from a downed Air Force satellite. Given their track record, 141 should have been in and out of that base in 30 minutes; instead it took them over an hour, and we learned from analyzing the recovered ACS that the last processes of breaching its safeguards had been finished within an hour of its recovery.

Second is the American the Russians say they found at the airport massacre in Moscow. He was an American- a new member of Task Force 141. It seems like someone in 141 placed him there as a double agent, then blew his cover.

Third is a recent mission by 141's primary leaders, Captains MacTavish and Price, into a Russian naval base near Vladivostok. The raid was meant to be part of a counterattack by the Sixth Fleet. They were there to destroy a Russian ballistic missile submarine; instead they hijacked it, firing a missile at the United States."

"We don't know if the missile was meant to be an air or ground-burst, but it headed directly for D.C. The Air Force managed to scramble its electronics enough that it went off much higher; we got lucky on that one."

Shepherd paused again, letting the men take in what he'd just said. They sat still and silent, waiting to hear the rest of the story- and then what Shepherd wanted them to do about it. But Shepherd could see they were rapidly becoming convinced; sparks of anger, of betrayed fury and indignation, were alight in the eyes of all the Shadow Company men present. They wouldn't be lacking for motivation today- not that they ever did.

"Gentlemen," Shepherd said, "The intel boys have been cropping up evidence linking some of 141's best men- MacTavish and Price most significantly- to the Ultranationalists. And by that, the spooks mean Makarov."

Shepherd spoke his next words carefully, making sure everyone in the room understood him. The coming operation could tolerate no mistakes. No hesitation. And absolutely no remorse. "_Every one _of us took an oath," the General said, "to protect the American people. Against all enemies- foreign, and domestic." His voice grew hard as he spoke, taking on that conviction that was so effective in spurring men into action. "In fourteen hours, gentlemen, Team Lambert will go on a joint op with 141 in the Boneyard. You men, Team Disciple, will escort Warhorse 5-1 as my chopper goes to pick up another group of 141 men at Makarov's safe house near the Georgian-Russian border. The men of Task Force 141 have been compromising the safety of America and her allies for too long, gentlemen. When they go out on those missions today, you _will_ make sure they _do not come back_."

The General paused, looking around at the gathered men in their black uniforms, gray-tan helmets, and black balaclavas covering their faces, save for space around the eyes. And those eyes, regardless of colour, were hard and determined. These men were professional warriors in every sense of the word; the ultimate pragmatists, willing to do literally anything to achieve an American victory. It was easy to see, looking at those hard, unpitying eyes, why the Taliban had honoured them with the name "The Black Devils".

"Gentlemen," Shepherd said, locking eyes with each and every man in the room as he looked around him, "I don't like what must be done today any better than you do. But I assure you; it must be done. What can I expect of you today?"

"We're with you, sir," Zack said, speaking up suddenly. "We'll get this shit done. You can count on us."

"_Hooah_!" the rest of Disciple echoed, their voices united and gripped with an almost fanatical sense of mission. This war was going to cause the death of thousands, perhaps millions. It was threatening the families of every man in Shadow Company- their mothers, brothers, fathers, sons. Before they had only the Russian Democratic Union and that son of a bitch Vladimir Makarov to blame for it. But now… they had someone else they could strike back at. Treason was the most unforgivable, most unholy crime a man engaged in military service could possibly commit; it was one of the few offenses still universally regarded as punishable by death.

In the thirteen hours they had to prepare for the mission, the men of Teams Disciple and Lambert busied themselves with a million things; preparing maps and diagrams of the areas to be attacked, discussing how and when to best engage Makarov's men at both sites. Mission details of any significance had to be plotted out to a T; gear had to be gathered, ammunition and weapons counted. The Boneyard was rumoured to have a few BTR-80's under Makarov's control there, and one of those could shoot down a Little Bird and kill a lot of Shadow Company operators if the men weren't careful.

The Boneyard was Team Lambert's mission, and as Zack made his way back to the cave that served as Team Disciple's primary mission preparation room, he could hear the team's leaders speaking in hard, emotionless voices as they discussed how, when Phase Iceman was reached, that stage in the mission would see the men of 141 eliminated. Since both MacTavish and Price were going on that mission with them, their deaths would mean the effective end of Task Force 141, and their treasonous acts against the U.S. and its government.

Makarov's safe house in northern Georgia was going to be a cakewalk; the blueprints of the house and the maps of the area showed that from the start. Shadow Company would not go in alongside the two-dozen 141 men being sent in; Shepherd made it clear when he left to go brief the other teams that he wanted to let Makarov's men kill the 141 off first, the more to make Team Disciple's job easier. Instead, Disciple would arrive on Shepherd's Pave Low- Warhorse 5-1- and a group of MD-500 Little Birds around 1600 to pick up whoever was left. That applied to Makarov's band of terrorists and to the 141 traitors equally. Team Disciple would arrive, pacify the area, and return to Site Hotel Bravo with Vladimir Makarov's operations playbook in hand.

"This is gonna be a hell of a day, fellas," Colonel Jack Larkin, Shadow Company's CO, said as he spoke to the gathered men of Team Disciple and Team Lambert around noon. The men of both teams had gotten next to no sleep since they'd been told of their new mission; everybody was too busy, and too damn excited. Adrenaline and hunger for revenge raced through them; Team Butcher and Team Vinson felt just the same once they heard, but were stuck on guard duty, ready as always to swiftly and mercilessly dispatch anyone who tread on Site Hotel Bravo's turf without having right to be there. They understood that mission mattered too, but would have given anything to be out there at the Boneyard or the safe house instead.

Colonel Larkin went by the callsign "Black Skull" on the radio, and was sometimes referred to by that name by his men. He was the consummate professional soldier, and believed completely in Shadow Company's unique role and mission. Zack admired him greatly.

Larkin kept his comments simple, knowing his men could hardly wait to get out there and raise some hell today. "Let me tell you guys something," Larkin said, his eyes and his voice alive with excitement.

"What we will do today to avenge our dead and win this fucking war, the books won't get to talk about for a hundred years. We're gonna kill that son of a bitch Makarov, and if those 141 guys wanna be his undercover buddies, we'll bury _them_ just the same. It's gonna be a long time before the world knows it was us. That _we_ were the ones who ended shit the day before _yesterday_. But on that day in 2116, this country will be building monuments to us. They'll be naming schools and highways after us for the shit we did for this country."

Larkin pointed at Zack, picking him out of the gathered crowd of elite soldiers, all loaded down with more than fifty pounds of gear. "Skidmark," the Colonel said, effortlessly recalling Zack's nickname, "Where you from again?"

"North Charleston, South Carolina, sir."

"By this time in a hundred years, sea gulls are gonna be crapping on a big fuckin' statue of you, right where Fort Sumter used to be. The Statue of Skidmark." He grinned as the men chuckled at Zack's nickname; like so many others in special forces, Zack's nickname was indeed an endearment of sorts, but how he'd earned it was rather embarrassing. Zack smiled, though. "Sounds fine to me, sir."

Larkin nodded. "You guys try to leave me a few, all right?" the men laughed. "All right," Larkin barked, "On your feet, Shadow Company! Get your asses out there and show 'em what the Black Devils can do!"

"VIGILANS ET FIDELIS!" the men roared as one.

"What was that?" Larkin said, feigning near-deafness and cupping a hand to his ear. "I didn't hear our other motto; am I losing my mind _and_ my hearing? I think I might have to retire!"

"DEATH WAITS IN THE SHADOWS!" Team Disciple and Team Lambert, more than four-dozen strong in all, yelled it so loud one could probably have heard them in Kabul- had not even the mountains been afraid to betray their secret location, and risk the Black Devils' wrath.

Now the Colonel grinned; "Oh, _boys_!" he bellowed, "I think I just got a _hard-on_!"

Team Lambert lifted off in a group of UH-60's and MD-500's at 1300, set to arrive at US Vehicle Disposal Yard 437- AKA "The Boneyard"- at 1330. Once they linked up with the men of Task Force 141 sent to that location, they would observe an arms deal that Makarov's men were to be making- it was possible Makarov himself would be there. If not, he was likely to be at his safe house, a mountain retreat that had taken years to locate and confirm as a location used by Makarov.

At 1400, the second team of Shadow Company given the honour of making history today rushed off to board their MD-500's and the Pave Low, Zack bumped into Disciple Six's team leader, his buddy Henry Raam; Disciple Six and Disciple Two were riding all the way to Georgia on the escorting Little Birds, while the other fire teams of Disciple rode with Shepherd in the Pave Low. As they exited the caves and reached one of the sections of open ground that saw use as landing space for the helicopters, Raam turned to Zack as he noticed who was beside him. "Come on," he said with a grin, "Let's go fuckin' _shoot something_!"

Zack grinned back, calling "I'll try to save you a few!" as he headed for his helicopter.

Within just a few minutes, the six MD-500's escorting General Shepherd's Pave Low to Georgia took off; the men on board now rode in silence, listening to the rush of the wind and the roar of the helicopters' engines. Many had no doubts about the righteousness of their mission; about what was happening, what they were about to do.

Zack, remembering what gallant fighters and fierce, utterly fearless warriors 141- and in particular Captains Price and MacTavish- had always been, wondered for a time if they really were the traitors and sneaks Shepherd said they were. Zack Camden had actually met John Price once; though a highly accomplished soldier, Zack felt no shame when he told friends in Shadow that Captain John Price was the best warrior he'd ever seen.

The man was the best at everything he did; his remarks might have sounded like a braggart's words to the uneducated, but those who knew Price recognized anything he said as an irrefutable statement of fact. Many men bragged, but few could deliver on their words and prove they were as good as they claimed. John Price was the exception; a hard stare from him was enough to make every Ultranationalist in Russia shit himself. Try as Zack did, he just couldn't picture the Englishman as any sort of a traitor. He was just too matter-of-fact about everything, and traitors were sneaky and hid who they were behind a façade of goodness and honesty. John Price gave every impression of being someone who didn't have time for that crap. It just didn't match, though, with what Zack and his comrades in Shadow Company had just learned.

General Shepherd knew the men of Shadow were reliable; he knew he could count on them for anything. He would never lie to them; there was no reason to.

But in the time the flight took, Zack and the others had plenty of time to think about the mission they'd been given. Zack began to feel certain that if he had doubts, perhaps some private, traitorous thoughts, then that meant some of the other operators in Shadow Company did too. Maybe they did, but as the flight went on and they flew onwards into Georgia, none of the Black Devils on their black helicopters said anything. Not one question, not a single statement expressing hesitance or doubt.

Not a word.


	3. Chapter 3- Loose Ends

**Chapter III- Loose Ends**

* * *

The MD-500 "Little Bird" helicopters of Thunder 2, the group of Shadow Company's aviators chosen to escort Warhorse 5-1 across the Caspian Sea and into Georgia- an act the Georgian Air Force had already been advised to overlook- were nothing if not quick; little birds indeed. In addition to the pilot and copilot, each Little Bird carried four men from Team Disciple. There was enough room to seat four men in full battle rattle in the back of the Little Birds; there was not enough room to do it comfortably. Zack, sitting on the far left side, made sure to strap himself in securely as they'd lifted off at 1530; the flight would perhaps take half an hour, and he wanted to get all the sleep he could in that time.

It seemed like Zack had only closed his eyes when Kevin Harkin, sitting immediately to his right, shook him awake. "Yeah, yeah," Zack grunted, taking his AN-94 off its sling and gripping it with both hands as he sat up and looked around. They were over the hills of Georgia now; Zack could see mountains in the distance to the left and right; forests and fields of grass down below. "We're getting close," Kevin said, and Zack snapped back the charging handle of his rifle. "Good."

The AN-94 was Zack's prize weapon; to the rest of the world, it was one that no American could get his hands on without killing a Russian first. The Russians, so eager to hand their AK-47's to anyone who even claimed to be anti-American during the Cold War, were quite the opposite with the AN-94; so far, only the elite of Russia's law enforcement and military had been allowed to use it. But there were always ways if you were in Shadow Company and wanted a particular weapon. Agents and allies of the US military's special forces were very good at their jobs.

Zack had requested the rifle- and fallen quite thoroughly in love with it- over its deadly accurate two-round burst setting. Gennadiy Nikonov's assault rifle possessed a firing system like no other rifle in the world; it could control recoil so that the weapon could fire two rounds but kick as if it had fired one. The rifle had been a great help to Zack in his time with Shadow Company; it had saved his life more than once. He wouldn't have traded it for any other out there. None at all.

"All right," Shepherd called over his radio from the Pave Low, "All teams, get ready! We're goin' in hot; this is it!"

"Thunder Two-One," a British man's voice crackled suddenly through the pilot's headset, "Stand by to engage targets by the red smoke! On my mark!"

"Roger that," the pilot answered, steering the Little Bird in over the grassy field. "Standing by to engage targets." There was a hill lined with trees up ahead; smoke mortars were obscuring much of it, but looking intently over there as Thunder Two-One turned and moved in, Zack was sure he could see men in Russian military uniforms. Makarov loyalists; they had to be. Red smoke was rising close to the hill's base, and Zack could see two men fleeing the others; one of the two appeared to be injured, being dragged along by the other.

Zack shook his head in amazement as he saw the man still on his feet hand the other a rifle, then keep pulling him along while the other shot at the soldiers chasing them. Mortars were exploding around them; they had to be catching hell down there. Yet the one was still on his feet, dragging the other towards the extraction point in the field, and the other was firing at the men coming after them. He wasn't a bad shot, even with his injuries; Zack could see one and then two of the chasing Russian soldiers go down suddenly.

"Thunder Two-One," the 141 commando called from the radio, "You're cleared hot!"

"Solid copy," Two-One's pilot answered, then turned to his copilot. "Spin 'em up!"

A high-pitched, electronic whine became audible as the two Gatling-type machine guns carried by the Little Bird began spinning their six barrels, preparing to fire. After a moment, Two-One's pilot said with surprising calm, "Guns, guns, guns," and the twin Gatlings spat flame at the enemy infantry advancing towards and past the red smoke at the base of the hill. Spent brass shell casings sprayed out from either of the Little Bird's stubby wings, and the roar of the machine guns drowned out the world. Zack was thankful for his own helmet and headset; in addition having an excellent built-in radio, the helmet did a fair job of protecting the wearer's ears, having been designed for just such use as this.

Leaning out just enough to watch but not enough to draw a bead on a target unless Thunder Two-One missed it, Zack was mesmerized by what he saw.

Some half-a-dozen men were advancing through the smokescreen, firing as they went; the Little Bird's guns cut them down. That wasn't even a close description of how it happened, however- it was like watching men be turned into Swiss cheese. Painfully. Zack had never seen so much blood.

Radios began to chatter all over the group of helicopters as the other Little Birds of Thunder Two landed, closely safeguarding Warhorse 5-1 as the Pave Low set down, turning around so its tail faced the tree-line. As the Pave Low's ramp dropped, the Little Birds disgorged their mounted infantry, then lifted off again and hovered protectively nearby.

"Cover the tree-line!"

"Copy that, we've got boots on the ground. All personnel, cleared to engage targets."

"Gold Eagle's on the ground!"

Zack's little bird dropped low briefly, hovering above the ground as two of Zack's men- Kenji and Michaels- hopped out to help cover the extraction force from the ground. As Thunder Two-One banked to starboard and began climbing over the hill and back up towards the estate house, Zack heard the voice of Disciple One Actual speaking into his radio.

"Disciple Two-Actual, this is Disciple One-Actual."

"Disciple Two-Actual here. Send traffic," Zack replied.

"Two men back at Mike Sierra are requesting pickup. Extract them and bring 'em back here; Gold Eagle wants to get going."

"Solid Copy, Disciple One," Zack said. "On it."

As the Little Bird banked to port and swung wide around the house, Zack could see two men in grayish-green uniforms, crouched low on the roof of the house and firing at some Russian soldiers advancing up the stone driveway.

"Guns, guns, guns," Thunder Two-One's pilot said again, and again the Gatlings commenced their deadly whine; in just seconds perhaps a dozen men lay messily dead on the uphill driveway. "All targets destroyed," Zack heard the pilot say in that emotionless, professional voice.

"Thunder Two One here," the pilot called over his radio, "I have visual on you, friendly infantry. Stand by for pickup."

The British commando couldn't have sounded more relieved. "Archer here, we're ready. Fuckin' glad to see you lads."

The Little Bird moved in and hovered near the slanting, gray-shingled rooftop; Zack shouldered his weapon and leaned out, extending a hand. "Afternoon, boys," he announced with forced cheer, "We heard you needed a ride. Just be advised; we don't take checks or credit cards."

The first of the two commandos hurried down the roof towards the helicopter, clasping Zack's hand and pulling himself up. Zack shifted over to make room for the man to sit in the middle, then turned and reached out for the second. The other SAS commando was aboard in moments, both of them sighing gratefully and shifting their rifles to one hand to shake hands with the Shadow Company soldiers riding in the back with them. "You lads couldn't have got here too fast," the man called Archer sighed, his face a sheen of sweat and his SV-98's barrel hot. "We were almost having a hard time down there." He laughed a little.

"Yeah," Zack said, not wanting to engage in conversation with someone he was in moments going to kill, "I know what you mean."

Zack turned and keyed his mike. "Disciple One-Actual, we have the men from the rooftop. On our way back to your position, over."

"Solid copy, Disciple Two. Bring 'em on back. We're just cleaning up."

_God's _teeth, Zack thought crazily, feeling a little sickened in spite of himself. _Is that what this _is_? Cleaning up_?

Apparently so. As Thunder Two-One swooped low over the trees and raced back to the grassy field, Zack could see a low ditch- or rather, maybe some dried-out small pond- in the field that was ablaze. A man in ACU's and a black beret- no armor or gear besides a holstered revolver- was standing near the flaming lumps, waving Thunder Two-One in.

The Little Bird set down fifty feet away, the spinning blades flattening grass for some distance in any direction across the field. Aware of the two Task Force 141 men sitting beside him, Zack felt a sudden surge of hatred; the second of the two, he recalled now, was wearing an American flag.

_To think I trusted you_, Zack thought bitterly. He thought of his younger brother Sam, just turned sixteen and living with their parents in North Charleston. Zack had failed to recognize the traitors in his midst and allowed their actions to go on for too long. Now, more likely than not, Sam was catching hell for it. Sam was a great kid; with his mop of shiny, rakishly combed hair and handsome athlete's build, Sam was the iconic teenage surfer kid. He was pretty good with the girls- almost as good, Zack had always loved pointing out with a smile, as Zack had been in high school. Sam was brave and wanted very much to be a Shadow Company operator like his brother; thanks in no small part to the two men sitting with Zack in the backseat of Thunder Two-One, Sam would be getting his trial-by-fire a little early.

_Never again_, Zack vowed. _I'll get the sons of bitches that started this war if it's the last thing I ever do_.

"Two-One is on the ground," the pilot announced, and Zack and Kevin hopped out of the left and right sides respectively. Zack came around to the right side, gazing towards the bodies- that's what they were, all right- ablaze in the ditch. He then looked at Kevin as the other soldier locked eyes with him, his face blank and his eyes stony. _Make your face a mask_, Zack reminded himself. _Seal off the emotions. Kill-switch_.

Kevin Harkin and Zack Camden nodded to each other, their grips tightening on their weapons as the two 141 commandos jumped out of Thunder Two-One from the right side. They hurried towards General Shepherd, who was turning and walking slowly towards them.

Just as the man called Archer reached Shepherd, he saw the bodies in the ditch- and recognized them as his friends. "Ghost!" he screamed, his voice gripped with agony and shock. "Roach!"

Zack and Kevin nodded to each other once more. _Let's do this_.

The two Shadow Company operators snapped up their weapons and fired. Zack's shot, aimed precisely at the back of Archer's head, put two bullets through the same spot; with the quick, sharp twin reports from the AN-94, the British commando crumpled without a sound. To his left, the other 141 man, the American one, took a shot to the back of the head from Kevin Harkin's M16. He dropped to the ground and didn't move.

Shepherd, standing there with the two bodies to either side of him, merely nodded. "Nice work, gentlemen." He began walking past, then looked left towards the Pave Low; Zack turned his head and saw Henry Raam coming out of the back with a ten-gallon gas container in hand. "Bring that over here, Raam!" Shepherd called.

Raam hurried over, and a he reached Harkin and Camden, Shepherd nodded to the three soldiers, glancing at the bodies. "Take care of this, gentlemen," Shepherd said, and walked away towards the Pave Low.

Zack and Harkin looked at each other, each having a hard time telling just what the other was thinking. Harkin's eyes looked oddly blank, like he was distancing himself from what he was doing. Zack imagined his own eyes probably looked very much like that; it was very important to forget that just days ago, the two bodies at his feet- and the two on fire in the ditch- had been allies.

Henry Raam, on the other hand, looked almost thrilled. He unscrewed the big gas can's cap, turning it over and dumping gasoline over the two dead Task Force 141 soldiers. "This is what happens when you betray _Americans_, motherfuckers!" Raam shouted at them, his voice joyful and furious at the same time. "This is what the fuck _happens_! You get _dead_!"

Zack just gazed down at the two bodies, hardly even noticing as he crouched and took hold of Archer's arms while Harkin picked him up by the feet. Zack didn't feel anything as he stood and together with Harkin threw the British commando's body into the flames; it lit instantly with a loud _whump_ and began to burn steadily. The young NCO fought the urge to puke as the wind shifted, blowing the smell of burning human flesh his way. He and Harkin turned just the same, though, and picked up the American 141 man's body, throwing it into the flames without ceremony.

For perhaps ten minutes they let the bodies burn; after that long, Shepherd- who stood watching nearby- became satisfied the bodies would indeed burn until reduced to ash. A follow-up "cleaner" team was coming in a pair of UH-60's; they would see that Makarov's safe house was emptied of everything and anything useful that remained, and that whatever was left of the 141 men sent here was never found.

"Let's go, guys," Zack said flatly as Kenji and Michaels rejoined him. Together with Harkin they reboarded Thunder Two-One's Little Bird, strapping in as the light, swift helicopter rose back into the sky. They circled for a few moments as Warhorse 5-1 took off again, then turned to follow the heavier transport chopper on its way back to Site Hotel Bravo in Afghanistan.

The four men in the back rode in silence; there was nothing but wind and roaring engines for a full ten minutes.

"I don't feel _anything_, man," Michaels said. "This is weird, brah."

"Hooah," Kenji said quietly.

_This is for my brother_, Zack thought, forcing the words through his mind- and swearing that he would keep on doing so until he believed, heart and soul, that it was true. _This is for my mom, and my dad, and for everybody back home. This is for all of them. It has to be like this_.

"I kinda wish I could go back," Kevin Harkin said distantly. "Talk to those guys. Ask 'em if they really _were_ traitors like, well, like Price, or just confused."

"The fact is," Zack said in a flat, unemotional voice- not at all like the lively, bigger-than-life guy he was back home- "We killed people today, and we do it all the time. This is no different than any other day at the races; those who can't kill will always be subject to those who can."

The other three men in the back of the Little Bird listened in silence, nodding a little as they returned to looking out the sides of the helicopter and watching the Caspian Sea race by beneath them.

_I don't feel anything_, Zack thought in a kind of horrified wonder as he rode Thunder Two-One back to Site Hotel Bravo. _I don't feel anything at all_.


End file.
